So, today, the goal is to rewrite a favored fairy tale with ourselves in the place of the character type we got as a quiz result. I apparently am happy go lucky, bouncy, bright, and somewhat brainless Little Red... Who knew?
You are Little Red Riding Hood. Sunshine and flowers bring people happiness, but even those things pale when compared to you! You are brighter than the sun and sweeter than a fragrant rose. You make people smile just by being in the room. You are always trying to help people out, and are known for your wonderfully elaborate gift baskets. You are a bit naive when it comes to trusting people, and have had a few potentially dangerous situations- but in the end it all seems to work out for you.
Anywho, I decided it would be fun and fairy tale-fitting to write a sort of sing-songy poem retelling for my task. Here goes:
Little Red Riding Hood, guest-staring me
The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
Or so the poets say.
A perfect stage set for my sister and I,
Tra-la-la-ing on our merry way, through the woods
To gramma’s house.
How fetching in my scarlet cape I am in this green wood.
Fetching far than my flighty sister in her red
Riding hood, on our way
To gramma’s house.
She stops at every twig snap, she perks at every noise;
Any chance for romance, to run her ploys
On the boys, for there are none
At gramma’s house.
But lag as she might, she’s run out of luck;
There are no boys for her to…charm.
No dashing men to lend an arm.
Just wolves in the wild wood.
She jumps and shrieks so prettily at
Every lupine howl
(and once the hoot of a passing owl).
A scowl on my face, I quicken the pace as we race
From the wolves in the wild wood.
But all her panting, girlish feint, her pounds
Of delicate, pale face paint, can’t hide
The truth in her livened eyes as we draw
Ever nearer the wolves in the wild wood.
“I want to touch one,” Red declares, but I
Catch her unawares, clutch
Her hand and pull her on,
Hurrying down the path.
She lingers, gramma’s chicken soup coldens;
Little Red boldens, tugs her fingers free and
Scurries down the bath.
“Just once!” she yells over her shoulder.
It’s strange to think I’m but a year older
Than this foolish brat --
Mom will scold her --
She disappears down the path.
‘Not this time, I will not follow.
I will not allow,’ I swear to myself,
‘Her folly to be mine.
I’ve soup for my dear gramma.’
I lift my basket to my hip,
Slip my hood up,
Quicken my skip, and pursue my course
To my dear, sick gramma.
It grows colder as the sun dips lower;
my steps grow slower;
The path is overgrown and narrow,
Slowing my pace to my poor gramma.
I see then her blue door through the trees;
Relief floods me, weakens my knees.
I rush to knock,
But pause instead --
The shape at the door is wrong --
It’s wearing gramma’s housecoat and
Humming a sweet song,
It turns to me, greets me with a growl --
“My dear!” is what it said.
“Gramma?” I ask, but surely,
It’s strange; I know she’s sick, but what a change -- “What
“The better to chew my bread.”
“I -- I brought you soup,” I haltingly say.
She says, “I’m famished,
I’ve eaten but once today.”
But as she took my basket from my arm,
She didn’t look ill fed.
Her nails caress my cheek and chin.
Her hair, which had been
Spilled out from the cap upon her head.
“What meal have you had, Gramma dear?”
I raise my voice so she can hear --
“What’s that my dear?
Oh yes, my lunch --
It was darling
Wanna take the quiz?